


Conviction

by hausenblase



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Die Nationalmannschaft, FC Bayern Munich, Gen, german nt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 10:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4916191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hausenblase/pseuds/hausenblase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Philipp Lahm experiences his first World Cup final.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conviction

His pen is poised above the blank sheet of paper, quivering slightly. It had seemed so easy when he had thought about doing it, but now that he was actually writing, no words came out. For what seems like the tenth time that afternoon, Philipp Lahm puts his pen down and sighs. Maybe he shouldn’t write anything and just contact the press. But an interview seems too impersonal. And he wouldn’t be able to choose the perfect words.  
  
He stands up and goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water, which would hopefully clear his head. He passes by his room to check on Julian. He smiles fondly at his peacefully sleeping face him and tucks Juli in. His steady breathing makes Philipp feel serene. Feeling readier, he goes back to the dining room and hunches over the table.  
  
This letter is the culmination of a 13-year-long journey, encompassing all its ups and downs. In his heart, Philipp knows he can’t say everything he wants to say. But he hopes that this would be enough.  
  
“Dear friends,” he starts to write.  
  
**2013**  
It is going to be a historic season for Bayern München. Philipp can feel it in his bones. As if to confirm this, the club announces that Pep Guardiola will replace Jupp Heynckes as the Bayern coach.  
  
Philipp is not quite as excited as the rest of the team to be training under him. They keep talking about his success with Barcelona, but Philipp has been through many new and excellent coaches. The process barely changes: they come in, change everything to fit them, and fail to find a compromise between the strategy in their heads and the club’s philosophy.  
  
He can usually tell what sort of a person this coach will be in the first meeting, though. So on the first day of preseason, Philipp arrives extra early to Säbener Strasse.  
  
As soon as he enters the locker room, he sees a balding, hunched figure in a tracksuit.  
  
“Pep Guardiola?” he ventures.  
  
The man looks up and, sure enough, it is Guardiola. “Philipp Lahm. It’s nice to meet you,” he says, standing up and shaking his hand. Philipp is impressed with his German and quickly notes the lack of a translator around.  
  
“Likewise. I’d just like to say I’m excited to work with you for the coming season,” Philipp says warmly. Already, he is starting to like Guardiola.  
  
“I look forward to it as well,” Guardiola says.

 

*** * ***

They win their first game against Borussia Mönchengladbach, and Philipp’s hunch just gets stronger. As the season progresses, the team gels together well and Pep soon becomes a natural fixture in the Allianz Arena. Philipp’s respect for Pep only increases after working more extensively with him.  
  
“What do you think of the new coach?” Philipp asks Bastian Schweinsteiger as they jog around the pitch for their warmup.  
“Seems nice. And intense,” Bastian says, tilting his head towards Pep’s direction. He’s standing with a notebook in hand, meticulously going over notes from the previous match and training session.  
  
“If he keeps that up, he’ll be completely bald by the end of the season,” a voice pipes up behind them. Philipp doesn't even look; only Thomas Müller would say something like that. He rolls his eyes as Bastian laughs.  
  
“Don’t do that, Philipp,” Thomas warns. “Someday, you’ll be just like him. But smaller.”  
  
“I’ll retire from football soon and return to Bayern as a coach. Then you’ll regret you ever said that,” he jokes, but Bastian suddenly perks up.  
  
“What? You’re retiring soon?” he says in alarm.  
  
“Am I that bad at telling jokes?” he complains but as Bastian and Thomas laugh and forget about it, the sudden thought haunts him for the rest of training.

 

*** * ***

At 29 years old, Philipp is hardly in prime retirement age. But in a few weeks, he would turn 30 and that would change everything. It means one year closer to retirement.  
  
He has never put an age cap to his career so it is with some difficulty that he thinks about his situation on the way home. He picks up his phone after training to ask Claudia for her opinion, but then resolutely sets it down after the first ring. He has to be at peace with his decision before talking to her. She is still at work so he has a few moments to himself to think about this.  
He wouldn’t retire from Bayern soon; that’s for sure. There are a couple of years left in him for club football at least. But the national team is another matter entirely.  
  
The next major competition would be the World Cup in Brazil. The press is already getting hyped up about it and he and Jogi had discussed it a few times. The next qualification games are not far away and national training sessions would only get more intense from here on. And after that? European Cup in 2016.  
  
He would be 31 by then.  
  
_If only I could look into the future and see if we would win the World Cup, then I can easily decide_ , he thinks to himself. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, brooding and serious. The circles under his eyes have only grown darker, thanks to the number of times he and Claudia had to get up at night whenever Julian pierced the air with his cries. Streaks of gray have appeared in his blonde hair and his wrinkles seem to crease deeper. He rubs a hand over his tired face and sighs. He looks as old as he feels.  
  
What a perfect ending, to retire after winning the top international football competition. Then there would be no need to prove anything at the European Cup. But such foresight is beyond him.  
  
He wakes out of his reverie by the sound of a key unlocking the front door. “Hey,” he greets Claudia with a kiss and takes the groceries from her, but doesn’t say anything else.

 

*** * ***

Retiring from international football is the first thing and the last thing on his mind every day. In between, regular training, matches, and Juli all provide ample distraction and he enjoys every moment, but alone, it continually dominates his thoughts.  
Everywhere he looks, it’s only one person retiring after the other. Christoph Metzelder. Mark van Bommel. And very recently, Thomas Hitzlsperger **.** Philipp wonders how long it took them to decide.  
  
“Lahm, stop staring at my ass.” A voice snaps him out of his thoughts. Thomas is bending over in front of him, reaching his left foot.  
  
Philipp just rolls his eyes. “I won’t even dignify that with a reply.”  
  
“But you just replied to me,” Thomas teases, stretching the opposite direction. “And really, will you please just stretch and keep your dirty thoughts to yourself?”  
  
Philipp realizes he was standing stock-still in the middle of the pitch while everyone else is stretching. Embarrassed, he brushes it off with a laugh and starts to stretch as well.

 

*** * ***

Training has always been about observation. He plays, but he observes. And then analyzes. And observes some more. He often meets with Pep to talk about tactics and discuss possible formations and other improvements. He always learns something new. Pep has a very different way of thinking about football.  
  
During national training, he has also fallen into the habit of observing Bastian. Among the others, he just stands out. This extremely confident and dominant midfielder bears no resemblance to the awkward, pimply teenager Philipp had first met in 2004. Who would have thought he would have turned out this well?  
  
On the pitch, Bastian is the one yelling instructions to his teammates, pulling them together. In the locker room, he, Thomas, and Lukas provide the entertainment and help the newer ones settle in faster. Even in the team council, Bastian is like Philipp’s right hand man. Jogi turns to him whenever Philipp is not around.  
  
These used to be Philipp’s responsibilities, but increasingly, Bastian has taken over them of his own volition. Philipp wonders if he notices.  
  
He’s also seen the way the kids look at him, like the way Philipp had looked at Kahn during the first time they met, the way they look at him now, too. There’s awe mingled with a little fear, and a lot of respect.  
  
“Are you constipated, Lahmi?” Bastian is looking at him with a funny expression. “Because the toilet’s free now.”  
  
“Just thinking,” he says and Bastian sits down beside him as he towels his hair.  
  
“Of?” he prompts.  
  
“How platinum blonde looked so much better on you,” Philipp teases.  
  
“Ugh please. Let’s not go there,” Bastian grumbles and Philipp laughs.  
  
Remembering something, Philipp excitedly takes out his phone and scans through the gallery. “Lukas!” Philipp calls and the striker walks over. Bastian stops rummaging in his bag to look at both of them dubiously. “Remember this?” Philipp hands his phone to Lukas.  
  
As Lukas starts snickering loudly, Bastian gets a sinking feeling in his stomach. “What is that?”  
  
“Oh you know,” Philipp says, trying to keep a straight face, “your initiation into the national team. When you had to–“  
  
“Poldi!” Bastian roars, but it’s too late. Lukas is at the other end of the room, showing the embarrassing photos to Julian Draxler and Christoph Kramer. They’re all doubled over in laughter. Philipp has already developed a stitch in his side. The next thing he knows, they’re chasing each other out of the locker room in towels.  
  
Well, at least some things never change.

 

***** * *** **

He thinks of Bastian on the drive home and makes his decision.

 

***** * *** **

He doesn’t tell Claudia right away; he doesn’t want to bother her at work. It’s only hours later, when they’re both lying in bed and Juli is tucked safely in his crib, that Philipp broaches the topic.  
  
“Still awake?” he whispers into Claudia’s shoulder.  
  
Claudia turns to face him, eyes half-closed. He could see the midnight wakeups taking a toll on her as well. “What is it, Fipsi?”  
  
“I’ve decided to retire from international football after the World Cup,” he says. The darkness covers her face entirely and keeps him from reading her expression.  
  
“Are you sure?” she says.  
  
“Yes,” and even he hears the conviction in his voice.  
  
“What about European Cup? Or winning the World Cup?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” he says.  
  
Wordlessly, Claudia pulls him into her arms. They stay that way as they both fall asleep.

 

*** * ***

After training, Philipp pulls Bastian aside. “Can I have a word later?” he says.  
  
“Sure, after I shower. Or did you want to talk now?” Bastian adds uncertainly, as he sees the look on his captain’s face.  
  
“No, later’s fine,” Philipp says and he busies himself repacking his bag. He waits until the rest of the team wanders out, some stealing odd glances at him, until only he and Bastian are left.  
  
“What is it, Lahmi?” Bastian asks as he plops down on a bench opposite Philipp.  
  
“I’m retiring from the national team next year,” Philipp says, but even if he anticipated surprise, he still feels quite taken aback by Bastian’s shocked expression. “After the World Cup,” he adds unhelpfully, but Bastian’s face remains the same.  
  
However, he soon looks annoyed. “Geez, Philipp, stop pulling my leg,” he snorts. “So what did you really want to talk about?”  
  
“I’m serious, Basti,” Philipp says and the seriousness in his voice makes Bastian stop.  
  
“But we still have France,” Bastian says incredulously. “And what if we- you know,” he gestures, “the World Cup?”  
“It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“Like hell it doesn’t matter!” Bastian says, his voice rising. “You know how important you are to our team, Lahmi. OUR team.”  
  
“I’ve thought about this for a long time,” Philipp says. “It wasn’t an easy decision to make, that’s for sure. But you made me surer of it.”  
  
“Me? What did I do?” Bastian asks, eyebrows rising in disbelief. “I didn’t even have an inkling about this until we talked.”  
  
“Let’s just say when I retire, I’m sure the new kids will be in very capable hands,” Philipp smiles.  
  
“Are you kidding me?” Bastian says.  
  
“I mean, you’re in the team council. It’s practically official already,” Philipp jokes. He finally cracks up at Bastian’s shocked face. “What? It’s not like you never thought of it before.”  
  
Philipp takes the silence as a yes. Bastian says, “Guess I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, huh?”  
  
“I’ve made up my mind,” Philipp agrees and he stands up to take his bags. Bastian follows suit and together, they walk out of the locker room.  
  
“Who else have you told?” Bastian asks.  
  
“Just Claudia.”  
  
“Jogi?”  
  
Philipp shakes his head. “He’s preoccupied with preparations as it is. I’ll find time.”  
  
Bastian exhales heavily. But before he can say anything, they’re outside the pitch and the fans are waiting and they have to go their separate ways.  
  
**2014**  
It feels like preseason once again. The national team has just arrived in Südtirol and the “hotel”, if you could call it that, looks downright amazing. The ferry trip has been spectacular as well. Philipp has been nursing a broken ankle but the atmosphere at camp as well as the tantalizing prospect of once again playing football on the world’s biggest stage excites him immensely.  
  
When Bastian, Manu, and Philipp get to Campo Bahia, the rest of the team are already training. They, too, have just come back from recent injuries, but all are ready to get started. “Well, we’re late but at least your left arm isn’t in a cast this time,” Bastian says to console him but this just earns him an elbow to the ribs.  
  
“Can’t we just go to the training camp in peace,” Philipp groans.

 

*** * ***

Everything is exactly how it was, but at the same time different. The team council meets and assigns house groups. He meets Jogi to discuss tactics and schedules. He spends time with the physiotherapists to check on his ankle. He goes around the houses, talking to the new kids, making sure everyone’s alright and focused on the next match. Bastian and Thomas try to get him to play golf after their first win over Portugal and Thomas’ hattrick. Philipp just gives them his best annoyed face and they soon give up.  
  
However, the usual team shenanigans still entertain Philipp to no end. Thomas loses a bet and has to go around waitressing in a dirndl. It would almost be traumatic, if it wasn’t so damn funny. Lukas throws a staff member in the pool as they all laugh. Christoph sings “When You Say Nothing At All” on their way to camp after Portugal, which was heartwarming. (Philipp makes a mental note not to sit next to Christoph in karaoke.) And of course, Bastian and Lukas are at it again, pulling pranks on everyone and posting too much on social media. (Well, Lukas, that is.) It makes him feel affectionate and old, like a parent watching his kids grow up. At times, he feels more a part of the coaching staff than the footballers, still part of the players but separated by an invisible line.  
  
The games go well. Not as ideal as Philipp would have hoped, but at least Sweden was still the most terrifying game by a long shot. Portugal, Ghana, USA, Algeria – one by one, they fall. Each day, the golden dream comes closer and closer.  
  
One night, he can barely sleep, tossing and turning after the rest of House 4 has gone to bed. He sits up and looks at the house across – the light on the top floor is open. That means Jogi is up as well. He wonders if the whole team is already fast asleep.  
  
“Miss Jogi already?” a voice whispers, and he almost jumps out of his skin. His door is ajar and Thomas is choking to death in silent laughter.  
  
“There’s a thing called knocking, you know,” Philipp huffs as Thomas enters his room and sprawls his gangly frame over the couch.  
  
“Couldn’t sleep, and I figured if there’s someone in this house who couldn’t, it’d be you.” Thomas shrugs his shoulders.  
  
“Wanna talk about it?”  
  
“About what?” Philipp says dubiously.  
  
“Whatever’s keeping you awake. Couldn’t be pre-match jitters against France, could it?” Thomas says slyly. “Or…do you really miss Jogi?” He ducks as a pillow comes hurtling towards him.  
  
“Well…I just don’t want our last match to be for third place anymore,” Philipp finally admits after a few moments of silence.  
  
Thomas abruptly perks up at the words. “Hey, that’s actually pretty good,” he says in awe. “Make sure you say it in your pre-match pep talk.” Philipp is about to throw another pillow before he realizes that Thomas was actually serious.  
  
“Uh, sure,” he laughs. “Now give me my pillow and go back to your room.”  
  
“Never,” declares Thomas and he races out with the pillow. “Good night, Lahmi!” Half-sighing, half-laughing, Philipp closes his door and finally falls into a deep sleep.

 

*** * ***

After they crush France’s World Cup dreams with a goal from Mats Hummels early in the first half, Philipp’s anxiety only increases.  
  
He spends rest days training hard and swimming a lot. Philipp loves swimming. Growing up, he was out training at the pitch while all his friends were chilling at the pool. Swimming isolates him from the team but makes his head clearer, calms his nerves, and enables him to think and analyze while keeping his body busy. Somehow, it’s these physically active moments when Philipp thinks best.  
  
Three days feels too long, yet too short. Already, they are boarding the plane to Estádio Mineirão to face Brazil. To Philipp, semifinals represents a threatening hurdle which Germany had not been able to leap over in all the World Cups he had taken part of. 2006. 2010. At the time, he had been young enough to think that whoever wanted it most would win.  
  
And how he had wanted it so badly.  
  
22 years old. His first World Cup. Cast as part of the so-called “golden generation”, with larger-than-life stars such as Michael Ballack and Oliver Kahn. He had felt invincible. The World Cup, on German soil, as it should rightfully be. But after suffering defeat at Italy’s hands, he could not be consoled. Not even making the All-Star Team or playing all minutes of the tournament comforted him in the slightest.  
  
26 years old. A little more experience, a little bit wiser. The armband rested heavily on his arm, as did the media’s speculations and reactions, no matter how much he tried to shake them off.  
  
The team looked pretty pitiful to outsiders. Some of their more experienced players, and of course their captain Ballack, were out weeks before the competition, leaving them fragmented and incomplete. Jogi was forced to call up a couple of youngsters to complete the 23. The second wave of the golden generation.  
  
And how they shined. Thomas Müller, Mesut Özil, Manuel Neuer, Sami Khedira. Each cross, each goal, each win felt like a dream come true. Philipp almost believed they could make it to Soccer City.  
  
Then came Spain.  
  
Once the ball arced over Manu’s outstretched arm and landed in the back of the net, it was as if Philipp went deaf. He heard nothing even as he watched the Spaniards jump ecstatically on each other and pump their fists in the air. Manu’s eyes were lifeless, his face an empty mask. _The dream isn’t over yet_ , he told himself. But Philipp had always been a bad liar.  
  
When the final whistle blew, Philipp let the tears fall. He didn’t care who was watching, didn’t care that the cameramen circled like vultures, zooming into their vulnerable faces. His heart was heavy, his throat closed up, and he bit his lower lip to stop it from trembling so much. It was an effort to start walking off the pitch. Post-match was a blur. He probably shook some hands and comforted teammates, but his mind was blank as only one emotion flooded his entire being.  
  
Disappointment.  
  
The walk to the locker room was long and arduous. In his head, Philipp replayed the scenarios he had witnessed, looped the mistakes, identifying what had gone wrong and what could’ve been done to make it right. This was one of the qualities that made him a great asset to the team. But it also made him a danger to himself.  
  
“We didn’t play courageously enough,” he says to the interviewer in the mixed zone, trying to keep his voice flat. He had sensed the fear, the hesitation, but what could he do with could-haves now? It was final: the German dream was over. He found he could not hide his bitterness anymore. “It’s a huge disappointment.”  
  
Finally, the interviewer let him go as he spotted Bastian entering the mixed zone. Philipp was relieved; he could only hold in his tears for so long.

 

*** * ***

And now, here he is at the same stage, at the same competition. Always the same, yet different. He stands in front of the team: the 22 players, the coaches, the staff. There are good vibes all around but Philipp knows from experience that everything can change at the slightest moment. He clears his throat and the conversations die out. They look expectantly to him.  
  
“Today, is an important day. Today, we go to Belo Horizonte.”  
  
He looks at each of these faces, some old and familiar, some fresh and new.  
  
“The German team is a good team. That is a fact. We started our campaign strong. Zero losses against all opponents, from the qualifiers to our last match three days ago. Even the media has touted us as favorites to win this year’s World Cup.  
  
“But never has a European team lifted the World Cup on South American soil.”  
  
Philipp pauses to let that sink in.  
  
“I have played in three World Cups: Germany, South Africa, and now, Brazil. Time and again, we beat the odds. Time and again, we have proved ourselves stronger than we thought we could be. But at the most crucial moment, we hesitated. We faltered when we needed that strength the most. One mistake. One tiny lapse in judgment. Only one inaccuracy can end our whole campaign.”  
  
He looks at each of them in the eyes. “We have prepared so much for the World Cup. We have had numerous setbacks: injuries, club problems, personal problems, bad luck. But still, we kept our heads down and worked hard. We trained until we collapsed. Until our muscles ached to the point of breaking. Until we thought we couldn’t take it anymore. And all for what?  
  
“What did you come here for? Why are you here, on this plane, thousands of miles away from your homeland?  
  
“One homeland. One team. One dream.” Philipp stabs his fingers at them as he says these words. “There may be football superstars, but they do not exist in our team. _This_ is our team.” He gestures at everyone. “Twenty-three players. Coaches. Trainers. Staff. We could not have come this far if a single one of you is not here. That is our motto, and that is our way to success. One homeland. One team. One dream.  
  
“How much do you want to achieve that dream? How badly do you want it? To what lengths will you go to succeed?”  
  
After a moment, he says, “If you still think that we are going to play for third place this year, then you are sorely mistaken.”  
  
The silent plane explodes with cheers and whoops, Thomas yelling the loudest of them all. “Kapitän! Kapitän!” The energy level spikes out of the roof. Philipp feels like he’s just been through a match, heart throbbing angrily in his chest.  
  
“Did you well to listen to my advice,” Thomas smirks at him later.

 

*** * ***

The team starts the match against Brazil with a fire. This is explosive German football at its finest. It is as if the team has one mind, each thought perfectly synchronized with the other, anticipating each other’s moves with absolute precision. Philipp’s heart swells to the point of bursting, feeling in every nerve, in every cell, an inexplicable love for the game. And when the first goal comes from Thomas’ boot, Philipp internally implodes with adrenaline.  
  
The goals come, they come alright, and definitely not in the number Philipp was expecting. First, it’s Miro, who finally supersedes Ronaldo’s record, then Toni follows with a brace soon after. Sami isn’t far behind, either. Two, three, four, five. Philipp swears that if he blinks, the scoresheet will return to 1:0. He has to pinch himself as he walks into the tunnel after the first half. He wonders if his laugh sounds as crazy as he feels. Five! At half time! It is as if all those goals that they needed back in 2006 or 2010 had suddenly come pouring down from the heavens.  
  
During half time, Jogi only has to remind them of Sweden and they sober up. But everyone is feeling an unnamable energy electrifying and connecting each team member to the other. This game is special. Philipp can feel it in his bones.  
  
Brazil’s fate is sealed when André scores two goals in the second half. Oscar gets a late consolation goal, and Philipp knows something is up because he isn’t as bothered about the clean sheet as he should have been. But he doesn’t have time to linger on this as the whistle blows and the whole team practically barrels into each other and screams their lungs out on the pitch.  
Seven-one! If Paul the Octopus had told Philipp that yesterday, he wouldn’t have believed it.  
  
“Super, Philipp!” Jogi tells him with a father’s smile.  
  
“Thanks, coach,” he grins.

 

* * *

The next day, Philipp wakes up in a very good mood. He watches the Netherlands-Argentina game on TV. Sometimes, he wishes that he could control the cameras to see all the angles and gain a perfect view. But that technology doesn’t exist yet. The first half turns into the second half, then stoppage time, then extra time and still there are no goals.  
  
Even extra time ends and they’re now at penalties. The whole team has gathered to watch. When Javier Mascherano buries his penalty into the net, there is no doubt. It is Argentina they’re up against.  
  
Philipp sees Jogi and Urs together, likely discussing revisions to tactics from data gathered during the match. Suddenly, his phone rings. It’s Claudia.  
  
“Hi Schatzi,” he says fondly.  
  
“You guys really went all-out last night, didn’t you?” She’s laughing. “And now you’ll be seeing Argentina in the final.”  
  
“How is Juli?” Philipp asks.  
  
“Asking for Papa,” she laughs again. “Don’t miss us too much; you’ll see us at the stadium on Sunday.”  
  
“Keep safe,” Philipp says.  
  
“You too,” Claudia replies and she hangs up.

 

*** * ***

July 13, 2014. This date will be imprinted in his memory for the rest of his life. Either as the best day or the worst day of his national career. This is his first World Cup final, everyone’s first World Cup final. And it scares him as much as it supercharges him.  
  
Now more than ever, his decision looms in the back of his mind. Doubts start to blossom. He would want one more shot at the trophy, if they didn’t…he pushes the thought out of his mind and squeezes his eyes as tight as he can.  
  
“My ambitions have always been high,” Philipp muses as he talks to Miro on the way to the bus. “But this time…I’m not aiming too far, am I?”  
  
Miro knows how nervous he must be to bring this up. Philipp has always shown one side to the team – his best side – and refused to expose any weaknesses. “Well, we’ve come this far. What are we supposed to hope for?” Miro answers, smiling fondly at his captain.  
  
He sees Philipp take a deep breath and, at once, his features rearrange themselves into that perfect expression of intensity and calm, but he could feel a sharp buzz of current underneath. “One team, Philipp. One team,” he says as he claps a hand to Philipp’s back and enters the bus.

 

*** * ***

As he steps out on the pitch, Philipp feels like he is back at VfB Stuttgart, playing his first Bundesliga match as a starter. So nervous, yet so self-assured. Too naïve to really understand what’s at stake.  
  
With a sinking feeling, Philipp feels like it’s a replay of the Netherlands-Argentina match. The minutes tick by, chances are created, yet the scoresheet remains unchanged. The Higuain goal almost sends him to his knees, but then the flag comes up with vindication.  
  
Philipp is so happy the offside rule exists.  
  
Regular time ends and they go into extra time. _We shouldn’t have let it go on for this long_ , he thinks a little angrily but he knows the team is playing well.  
  
“If we keep the pace up, we’ll see positives from here on,” he yells to be heard above the noise in the stadium. The players are in a huddle, and Philipp is in the center. “We played well, good pace, good attacking power, good chances. This is what I need from all of you now, those on the pitch and those off the pitch. Keep. The pace. Up. Argentina’s forwards are getting tired out there. They’re tired, they make mistakes. If we get tired, we lose everything. Let’s make this the last thirty minutes, alright? Keep the pace up! Let’s finish strong!” and everyone’s yelling and clapping and it’s time to go back out on the pitch.  
  
The whistle blows and the game is back on. André goes in for the kill, but Romero denies him. Then Manu gets bombarded with threats of a goal as Messi and Palacio almost score. Philipp’s legs are killing him but he has to go on.  
  
After an eternity, fifteen minutes are over. They collapse in exhaustion one by one. “Water,” Philipp gasps and Per hands him a bottle and a strong pat on the head. His body screams for rest but there are at least fifteen minutes more. _Last fifteen minutes_ , he scolds himself as he joins what is hopefully the last huddle of the match.  
  
“Fifteen minutes! The last fifteen minutes!” Jogi says, and there’s a desperate edge to his voice. “Do you want to win? Then behave like winners!”  
  
They cheer and the bench and staff give the players on the field their last words of encouragement. Meanwhile, Philipp heads to Mario Götze and gives him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “It’s in your hands, Mario,” he says. Jogi must have said something extreme, as Mario’s eyes burn with such intensity when they turn to him. He nods, reminding Philipp of a soldier, and jogs dutifully to his place on the pitch.  
  
The whistle blows. Things get heated in the midfield; the tussles get more intense. With horror, Philipp watches as Bastian goes down after a late tackle from Mascherano.  
  
“Fucking yellow!” yells Manu, but the referee plays the advantage. It seems the Argentinians have it in for Bastian after he collides with someone again, now with Aguero. Only this time, he doesn’t get up.  
  
“Fucking hell,” Philipp swears as he runs over but then Bastian sits up. Philipp’s about to slow down until Bastian turns his head. His heart seems to stop.  
  
“Basti! The fuck! Are you alright?” Philipp’s face is taut with worry and anger. Bastian has been dominating the midfield since the start of the game.  
  
“What? I’m fine, I’m fine,” Bastian says, pushing the medics away.  
  
“Fine?! There’s _fucking blood_ on your face!”  
  
“It’s nothing. It doesn’t hurt,” he says stubbornly and makes to stand up.  
  
“Let’s at least clean it up on the sidelines,” the medic says, but this is a trap. If they discover something serious, he won’t be able to play the rest of the game.  
  
“It’s just a bit of blood,” Bastian persists but with one look at Philipp, he lets the medics take him away. Germany are down one man.  
  
As if Philipp needed extra motivation to win.  
  
As Bastian’s being treated on the sidelines, he’s twitching restlessly. “Is it done yet?” he whines. He sounds like a 10-year-old child but at this point, he doesn’t care.  
  
“Yes,” the medic sighs and he comes back on the pitch to deafening cheers.  
  
Another good sign.  
  
After a foul by Palacio, Philipp restarts the game. Basti. Jerome. Mats. Toni and André play a one-two warily, aware of Argentina’s lethal counter-attacking pace, but then André takes a risk and races full pace down the left flank. As he crosses over to Mario in the center, everything seems to go slow-motion. The ball hits Mario’s chest, bounces off the ground, and, with the smallest of taps, Mario sends it gliding behind Romero and into the net.  
  
The stadium blows itself up. Mario’s hands are raised in victory. Philipp’s running, he’s running to Mario, and he yells, “You did it! You did it!” Someone’s shouting in his ear, German flags are waving, and everyone’s jumping.  
  
With a supreme effort, Philipp focuses on the last seven minutes. He’s definitely not playing for third place, but he’s definitely not playing for penalties either. “Good job, boys! Keep the pace up!” he yells as the team reassembles for the whistle.  
  
The Argentinians are almost done. Philipp sees it in their eyes. How could they win on the pitch if they had already lost the battle inside themselves?  
  
Jogi does a late substitution to waste time. There’s two minutes of added time. Two minutes?! The whole bench is glaring at the referee. Philipp’s legs feel like giving out any second now, but sheer willpower keeps him going.  
  
And at last, at long last, the final whistle blows.  
  
Philipp feels like he’s in a state of delirium. The first one he remembers seeing is Jogi and they exchange a tight, wordless embrace.  
  
“Super, Philipp,” Jogi tells him, just like he does after every good game.  
  
“Thanks, coach,” he says. Then he blurts out, “Let’s have a celebratory breakfast tomorrow morning?”  
  
Jogi looks a little surprised but then nods. He can’t stop smiling. “Sure, Philipp. I’d love to.”  
  
Philipp heads over to the man of the match, Mario. “Amazing goal,” he praises him. Mario still looks stunned.  
  
“It wasn’t…it was all for the team,” he manages and Philipp gives him a tight hug.  
  
He makes the rounds and reaches them one by one: Bastian, who had one of the best games of his life, Thomas, Manu, André, Mesut, Per, Christoph, Jerome, Lukas, Ron… Then he heads over to the Argentinians and shakes their hands. He’s not really the comforting type; he’d leave Bastian to that.  
  
Then Claudia and Juli are on the pitch and he exchanges a warm kiss with his wife. He picks up Juli, who screams, “Papa!”  
“You couldn’t be luckier,” Claudia laughs and they both know she’s talking about the win in the context of his decision.  
  
But Philipp says, “I couldn’t, because I already have both of you.” And they embrace each other and Philipp thinks of how blessed he must be to experience such a moment with his two great loves – family and football.

 

*** * * ***

Despite only getting four hours of sleep and drinking a lot of alcohol, Philipp wakes up feeling completely refreshed. The sun is shining; there’s a cool wind blowing through the camp. The camp is silent save for the sound of birds chirping. He stretches, washes his face, then pads down to the communal house for breakfast.  
  
The table is already set but the room is empty. He sits, drinks coffee, and waits.  
  
Five minutes later, Jogi approaches, wearing a white shirt and cotton shorts.  
  
“Good morning,” Philipp says. “Had a good night’s sleep?”  
  
“Yes. Didn’t have to pore over tactics last night, did I?” Jogi replies and they both laugh at that.  
  
They enjoy breakfast while sharing small talk, discussing last night’s shenanigans: Per’s terrible dancing, Mario getting absolutely wasted, and Lukas and Bastian’s selfie on the pitch. Philipp’s heart squeezes painfully; he understands that this is home.  
  
“Coach,” Philipp says, and at the tone of his voice, Jogi looks up from his plate. He waits expectantly.  
  
“I’m retiring from the national team.”  
  
Complete surprise registers on the other man’s features. Philipp sips his coffee.  
  
“When?” Jogi manages.  
  
“I’ll hand in my retirement letter personally to the DFB this Friday, before we go on break.”  
  
Jogi studies Philipp’s face and laughs uncertainly, still in shock. “You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?”  
  
“I made up my mind last season,” Philipp smiles.  
  
“Would yesterday’s outcome have changed your mind?” Jogi asks doubtfully, even if he already knows what the answer is going to be.  
  
“No,” Philipp says. Then, “Thank you for the ten years. It was a great honor to work with you.”  
  
They’re at farewells now, but Jogi still hasn’t processed it yet. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no words come out. Finally, he settles for, “Ten years.”  
  
“Yes, ten years.” Philipp pushes a small, plain box across the table. “For that, a little token of thanks.”  
  
Jogi comes over and embraces Philipp in a warm, paternal hug. Words failing him, Jogi says the phrase he always tells Philipp but which has lost none of its meaning: “Super, Philipp. Absolutely super.”  
  
“Thanks, coach,” he replies as always. “See you on the ferry.” And with that, he walks out of the room, out of Jogi’s reach.  
  
Jogi studies the small box on the table. It’s plain and unassuming, much like Philipp was when he was first called up to the national team. Inside are a pair of tickets and a jersey. Jogi pulls the jersey out first. It’s a customized national jersey, with **LÖW** written on the back, the number 1 underneath. The tickets are plane tickets to Porto Cervo.  
  
Underneath it all, there’s a note in Philipp’s neat, blocky handwriting. “Take a vacation, Jogi. You deserve it. Philipp”.  
  
Jogi shakes his head and chuckles softly to himself.

 

*** * * *  
**

Philipp takes off his shades and blinks at the relative darkness of his surroundings. He forgot how dim the sunlight in Germany was compared to Brazil. With purpose, he strides to the reception desk and smiles. “Philipp Lahm,” he says unnecessarily.  
  
“The president is waiting for you,” she says, gesturing to the office door behind her.  
  
Philipp has entered this room on a few occasions, but still everything looks familiar. There is a mahogany desk at the end of the room, where Wolfgang Niersbach sits and looks at Philipp with an unwavering stare.  
  
“Sit down, Philipp,” he says, but Philipp remains standing.  
  
“I’m retiring from the national team,” he says as he hands over a sealed white envelope with his letter tucked inside. It had taken him less than an hour to write. It was all formalities, anyway.  
  
Apparently, Jogi had already told Niersbach because he wasn’t in the least bit surprised. He turned over the envelope in his hands and set it down on the table, unopened. “Löw had told me about your conversation last Monday,” he starts.  
  
This is exactly why Philipp is still standing. “I’ve thought about it over the season, and I’ve come to the conclusion that this is exactly the right time for me to retire.”  
  
“How about the Euros in two years, Philipp? Germany will need you then,” Niersbach replies.  
  
“We have a squad of talented players. And we have dozens of youth players ready to step up to the challenge,” he says.  
  
“But we need your experience,” Niersbach urges. “Your leadership. Who will captain us when – if – “ he corrects himself, “you leave?”  
  
“Jogi and I have the same person in mind,” he says with certainty.  
  
“But he’s not like you, Philipp,” Niersbach says.  
  
“That’s exactly why he should be chosen.”  
  
Niersbach sighs and leans back. “It’s futile, isn’t it? What can I say to make you stay?”  
  
“My decision is final,” Philipp declares.  
  
“Alright,” Niersbach says, although it seems to take him a lot of energy to say so. “Alright, Philipp. Thank you for your service to the DFB, Kapitän.”  
  
“Thank you for choosing and supporting the perfect team, from Jogi, Hansi, Andy, and Olli, to the staff, to the players. Thank you.” They shake hands.  
  
Philipp turns to leave and then stops. “Before I forget,” he says almost sheepishly. Niersbach raises an eyebrow. “I also wrote a letter addressed to the general public. I guess my last request as a national player would be for you to publish that note instead of the standard announcement on the website. I’ll bring it over this afternoon.” At Niersbach’s silence, he continues, “Would that be alright?”  
  
“Request granted,” Niersbach says with a sad smile.

 

*** * * ***

Once he starts, the words just flow.  
  
“Over the last season, I came to the decision to retire from international football after this World Cup.  
  
"I informed Jogi Löw that I was retiring on Monday. I am happy and thankful that the end of my international career falls together with the win of the World Cup in Brazil.  
  
“This morning I said my goodbyes to DFB-president Wolfgang Niersbach and thanked him for the great teamwork from Joachim Löw, Hansi Flick, Andy Köpke and Oliver Bierhoff as well as the whole team and all DFB-staff of the past 10 years.  
  
“I’m on vacation for 3 days now and have the privacy and time to find mental closure for my international career.  
  
“Thank you for the great time!  
  
“Best regards, Philipp Lahm.”  
  
He sets down the pen and feels as if a huge weight has lifted off his chest. He reads and rereads the letter. It says everything and yet nothing.  
  
_I guess there’s a reason I got low grades in German_ , Philipp laughs to himself. The letter is perhaps not as eloquent as the general public would have liked, but it is short, honest, and heartfelt, much like Philipp himself.  
  
He smiles and tucks the letter in an envelope. Then a voice says loudly, “Papa? Papa?”  
  
He rushes to the bedroom to find Juli awake. “Come here little guy,” he says and carries Juli to his chest. “We’ve got an important trip to make.”  
  
**Epilogue**  
Bastian holds his head in his hands. He’d had another spat with Sarah, which had resulted in her leaving just minutes earlier, slamming the door behind her. He probably shouldn’t have mentioned Adriana Lima during that interview, but he had been way too drunk on happiness to care.  
  
Anyway, what was done was done. He sighs heavily and stands to get a beer from the fridge.  
  
The doorbell buzzes.  
  
Bastian runs out and opens the door with urgency. But instead of a blonde model, there was a blonde man standing in the doorway.  
  
“Oh,” he says, unable to hide his disappointment. “Hi Lahmi.”  
  
“Nice to see you, too,” Philipp laughs.  
  
“So what brings you here?” Bastian asks as they enter the living room.  
  
“I was bored at home. Set up the Playstation, quick,” Philipp jokes.  
  
“I miss the Philipp who was actually trying to be funny,” Bastian says forlornly as he sets down two glasses of beer.  
  
“So I’m not allowed to visit my teammates?” Philipp banters.  
  
“It’s not exactly like you regularly come knocking on my front door when we get time off,” Bastian points out.  
  
“Who were you expecting anyway?” Philipp asks.  
  
“Not you, that’s for sure,” Bastian laughs. “But really, what is it?”  
  
“Just wanted to give you something,” Philipp finally says and he takes out a small box.  
  
“Didn’t know we were getting engaged,” Bastian frowns and he gets a punch in the arm.  
  
“Geez, Basti. I’ve been to Niersbach a couple of days ago.” Philipp looks at Bastian and he sees understanding dawn on his face. “I guess you’ve totally unplugged, huh?”  
  
“I left my phone here and Sarah and I just got back this morning,” Bastian admits. “What did I miss?”  
  
“I’ve officially retired. They announced it on the DFB website last Friday,” Philipp says.  
  
Bastian drinks his beer. “I mean, I know you told me way back and all, but I guess I wasn’t able to process it. Still haven’t.” He shrugs. “I guess it’ll happen during the next international match. Niersbach tried to talk you out of it, didn’t he?”  
  
Philipp nods. “I expected Jogi to put up some resistance, but there were no questions about it. He didn’t even bring up 2016.”  
Bastian whistles low. “Guess he saw it coming.”  
  
“He was pretty surprised,” Philipp says.  
  
“So what is it?” Bastian asks, gesturing at the box.  
  
“Open it.” He hands him the box.  
  
Bastian does as he’s told. Inside lies a small piece of dark blue cloth, with the FIFA patch printed on it.  
  
“It’s the one I wore during the final,” Philipp explains as Bastian takes it out and turns it over in his hands with reverence. He shoots a questioning look at Philipp.  
  
“Congratulations, Captain Basti,” Philipp smiles and affectionately punches his shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”

*** * * ***

**Author's Note:**

> I was just having feels finally being able to watch Die Mannschaft and this monster came out. Any feedback - any at all - will be completely welcome!
> 
> Additional words by some random people:  
> "He was not only an outstanding player in his 10 years with the national team but always a perfect role model. I thanked him for all that he has done for the DFB." –Wolfgang Niersbach, DFB President
> 
> "I'd like to express my respect for what he achieved with the national team.” –Angela Merkel, German chancellor
> 
> "There is hardly a better farewell than to be a world champion at the peak of your career. But for the national team, it will not be easy to replace Lahm as a player, captain and a man." –Karl-Heinz Rummenigge, FC Bayern chairman


End file.
